you stretch out your long fingers, tips stained by beets and pomegranates. you paint your insides with the colours it knows best—all deep reds and purple blues. no one questions the morphing of you. a start never anticipates its end; it is too busy beginning, caught in the frenzy of unfolding.
it’s been like this a lot today—nowhere to turn but everywhere, with strange peripheral visions cataloging indescribable scenes.
(i do not run among the trees. there is no bridge to swim under. those high walls are not going to climb themselves.)
how easy it is to mourn the passage of time, regardless of the quality of time lost. i say save your tears, merak etme: we all have a taste for blood.